


Demon Slayer

by imanotaku



Category: Chicago PD (TV), Mindhunter (TV 2017), NCIS
Genre: Antonio is a great cause, Bill is finished with Holden, F/M, Hank is his sketchy self, He's a sweet, How Do I Tag, I promise, It has some violence, M/M, Protective Jethro Gibbs, Superpowers, Tony too, Urban Fantasy, but for a good cause, but in a loving way, but nothing much, demon slayer - Freeform, he's not dirty just a little stinky, katanas, okay i'm done, okay yeah he's a dirty cop, sorry - Freeform, very gay
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-31
Updated: 2019-10-19
Packaged: 2020-10-04 04:41:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20465171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imanotaku/pseuds/imanotaku
Summary: Ever since their childhood, Antonio Dawson, Anthony DiNozzo and Holden Ford have shared the same secret: they're demon slayers. It sounds like they're bad teenage superheroes, but it's a bit complicated than that. It means they smell very tasty to cannibal beasts. So they trained to survive- katanas included.But years after the last case, more cases start popping up like measles in the US . With new lives, they're forced to face the music. Not for themselves, but for the ones they love.Very gay urban fantasy with swordsmanship. And cannibalism!





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys, I've been working in this project for a long time and with almost twenty complete pages filled with fanfic, I thought: hey, I should post it! I made my best to describe every character so that readers from different fandoms can enjoy it.  
This is my gift for all the rare ships I love.  
About times in each series, it's sort of a blur. So here it is:  
\- Antonio is divorced, he's been shot by Pulpo, Hank's son Justin is still alive, Erin is in the unit, Kim is a patrol still (So around season 2/3)  
\- Tony has had the plague, he's been afloat, ziva is in the team and gibbs hasn't lost his memory  
\- Holden is in the modern time, in the BAU, and has panic attacks. Also, Bill has divorced Nancy (around the end of season 1)  
I don't own any characters, yada yada yada... English is not my first language... But I still hope you like it.

**Rome, New York**

Friday night. Around eleven. Three people enter a small apartment, trying not to stumble while chating way too loudly in their drunken happiness. Dr. Mary Geller, a happy go lucky mom friend; Josh Mosby, a non-remarkable, not very successful architect; and finally, Annie Santiago, a _jolie femme_ and a fellow, slightly more successful architect.

“And that was the first, but not last time I took out a Wii remote of an ass.”

They pass by a crocked picture of Mary, dressed in a finely pressed military uniform, smiling as if she just met Neil Patrick Harris. Annie smiles back to the picture before turning to the bright orange couch.

“We should…” She pauses. And a quick thought surged in her head. She tries to vault over the couch, parkour style but ends up falling on her face. Still, she laughs, “Do that.”

Josh rolls his eyes from his high pedestal and lifts Annie’s legs to sit next to her, “No.”

He rests them on his lap. They stay quiet for some moments. The only sound is the opening and closing of a fridge in the kitchen. She sits up, crossing her legs and points at the kitchen.

“She’s so cool! And pretty hot,” Annie raises an eyebrow and gets closer to Josh, staring at him, “How are you dating her? Does she know you’re dating? Do I need to call the popo?”

Josh pushes her face back, receiving a few mumbling protests in response. He pushes his glasses up on his long nose.

“You like her more than I do.”

Annie shakes her head, “You just don’t know how lucky you are.”

Mary walks in with a mischievous smile and three green beer bottles with cold droplets wetting her hands.

“Time to part-ay!”

Annie lifts her arms and cheers, “Yas! The night is young and so are we!”

**Chicago, Illinois**

In a dark room, protected from the wind that made the city famous, a middle-aged detective stays awake. Maybe it’s because of his job, but he felt something was wrong. Criminals seem like they don’t need sleep. But Antonio does- he rubs his dark-circled eyes. And for the umpteenth time, he rolls to the side.

Next to him, a middle-aged sergeant sleeps next to him like a rock. In Antonio’s opinion, Sergeant Hank Voight had two personalities: the hard, bad boy crime-stopper and the cuddle bear who was trying to hug him, octopus style. And Antonio was willing to be sucked into that dark void, only to be released in the morning, but something woke him up for real. Something more horrible than a double homicide or paperwork. A generic ringtone plays from under stacks of papers, a Glock and a Chicago Police Department badge. In its little squared screen, it reads Unknown Number.

Antonio turns around, practically flips, opens the drawer and hangs up. The cuddle bear man wakes up and turns around.

“Everything okay?” Hank’s voice is raspy from sleep as he rubs his eyes.

Without looking at him, Antonio buries the phone again and grabs another, this time green, phone with huge number dials directed to senior citizens.

“Yeah, I’m just going to the bathroom.”

He stands up and walks barefoot on the cold floor to the bathroom. His face is unreadable, but his dark eyes say only one thing: shit is hitting the fan. And it reeks. Antonio, in his bittersweet optimism, still believes, that maybe it’s a wrong number. Maybe an old lady got confused and dialed his number. But why would an old lady call a friend at five in the morning?

He turns on the neon bathroom light, a ray of artificial sunshine in the dark of the house. Antonio sits down in the toilet. He takes off the phone’s battery lid and reveals a piece of old, yellowed paper taped to it. It had two phone numbers with two names: MA and VA.

He inputs the MA number. A sigh escapes his lips. He makes a cross and does a small prayer. And hits call. The screen turns from calling to 00:00.

“Hey…” The voice from the other side drags the greeting.

“This is an emergency number, not for social calls, Tony.”

The voice stammers, slightly annoyed, “Y-Yeah, I know. This isn’t Downton Abbey, I know. I need your help you a little thing.”

Antonio rubs his temples. This is it- this is the confirmation that the fan is indeed covered in shit. Shit is now covering every goddamned hypothetical wall.

“Tell me.”

“Twenty-two, female. Killed two. Can’t remember anything.”

Antonio nods, “Any consumption?”

“Nope. LEO’s got called for screaming before anything happened.”

Antonio.exe stops working.

“What?”

The screen says 00:46.

“What what?”

“What’s a Leo?”

The voice on the other side has an epiphany, “Ohh- Yeah. Law Enforcement Officer.”

“So… Cops.”

“Yeah, I don’t know. I wasn’t the one that made up the words. I know it’s confusing, just roll with it, I don’t know-”

Antonio lets him ramble about words, and a guy named Gibbs, and why do petty officers are called petty officers if they’re actually nice (most, at least), and something about Top Gun… He loses the thread when he started talking about petty officers’ nicest qualities. Then he remembered someone killed two people.

“Okay, Tony, I get it. Move on.”

“Right. I made the tests. I shoved a light in her face, she almost when blind. I shoved Gibbs’ coffee in her face, and she threw up a little bit…” Antonio makes a disgusted face, “And I thought- hey, you know what that reminds me of? Those guys who’ve been trying to kill us. But this guy isn’t a full guy yet… Mostly because she has a vagina. And then I thought- I’m going to exorcise her. And who is the best exerciser of the three of us?”

Antonio smiles and lowers his head. He, using all the modesty in his body, was the best exerciser in the country, if not North America. Those Canadians only know how to kill those Snowy fuckers. And they only come out in the winter- that’s what?, three-four months? Okay maybe in Canada it lasts half a year, but they had the other half of the year in vacation.

Tony keeps talking, “I went home, took a shower, I got dressed in all white. I look like a sheet of paper with hair. Now I don’t have all the stuff- because you know, exorcism materials aren’t exactly sold in Old Navy. But I have some old stuff. It still works, right?”

Now, exorcisms are like the movie- a lot of puke, acrobatics, casual cannibalism, weird voices… It weird. It’s puberty and pregnancy mashed up together with dead religion. But it was fun. Unless you were killed. That’s less fun.

The phone marks 04:20. Antonio chuckles, “Yeah. I’ll tell you what to do. But I can’t talk for too long. Hank probably thinks I have diarrhea.”

**Washington D.C, Maryland**

Anthony DiNozzo Jr stands in a small, dark room. Small papers are glued from the floor to the ceiling, even covering the two-way mirror. Dressed in all white, he longs like a tall Casper, the friendly ghost, who just happens to wear Armani. And sitting in front of him, with handcuffs bounding her to the metal table is Dr. Mary Geller, now covered in dry blood from head to toes.

Tony sits on the opposite side of the table, in an uneven chair, far away from Mary’s long arms. He runs his fingers through his styled hair and reads the torn-up instruction paper.

“Give me just one second…” He says absently while re-reading what he’s supposed to do.

Then he bends down and grabs an old duffle bag with an O crossed by the words Ohio State. From there, he takes out what appears to be a feather duster, incense, and a. freaking. katana. A katana that was in a black scabbard with a red, long snake drawn on it, which ended in tall flames

Mary shakes in her chair, “What are you doing? Are you going to torture me?”

“We can’t torture people. At least not on US soil,” Tony waits for a laugh. He gets none.

Mary, instead, pleads for her life. She raises her hands, on the brink of tears, “I already told everything I knew to agent Gibbs. I can’t remember anything.”

“I know! I get it. That’s why I made you smell coffee. And almost blinded you. Sorry about that.”

She looks at Tony as if he’s an alien. Not the Mexican kind, mind you, or else ICE would be bursting through the door claiming he was a criminal. But politics aside, he knew she’s innocent. Everyone else looked at her like she was a monster. This strange man with his feather duster and freaking katana was her only hope.

She really didn’t remember. Of course, most thought she was lying, like David Berkowitz and the dog. It turned out to be bullshit, but it was what brought an audience and sold newspapers, so it’s the story that’s known. But she wasn’t lying, she wasn’t a psychopath. Mary remembered drinking and laughing, but she had an early shift so she went to bed. And then, next thing she knew, a police officer was tackling her and there was blood everywhere. Annie was laying down on the couch, covered in blood. Her beautiful hair torn from her head. Josh was on the ground, eyes scratched out.

Tony sits up in his chair, clearly excited, “I did that because I think you’re possessed.”

“What?”

She’s so fucked.

“Not by those horny, beefy demons. More like mythological demons.”

“Demons don’t exist.”

Tony gets face to face with her, “Then why don’t you remember killing your friends?”

Mary now openly cries, body shaking with sobbing, “Because I didn’t!”

“Why were you holding the knife?”

“I-I wasn’t!”

“Why are you covered in blood?”

“I-I-I don’t know!”

“Why did you kill them?”

“I didn’t!”

“Why did you kill them?”

“Son of a bitch!”

Mary’s face twists in anger as she lashes forward. Tony jumps back, calm, and wipes the spit from his face. She sits back in her chair, eyes widened in horror. She breathes heavily, heart pumping, face softening. Tony stands proud, showing his million-dollar smile.

Mary looks up to him, “I’m so sorry… I-I don’t know what happened. Are you okay?”

“Oh, don’t worry. I’ve been through this a lot. And worse. If you knew what types of things I’ve seen. Once, I was in school-” He stops talking, trying to get back on track, “Never mind. I just need to ask you something- any recent cuts? Any type of cuts.”

She looks down at her body and shakes her head, “Not that I know of. Wait- I cut myself yesterday opening beer bottles. What does that have to do with… me being possessed?”

She shows him the cut. It’s small on her index finger, but big enough. Tony gets in his royal position, ready to lay down some facts. He smiles. Years and years of inactiveness finally ending. Which is bad, because, well, people died, but at least no one was eaten. For now.

“See, since it’s not,” He air quotes, “ ’Lucifer’s minions’, but more like Baku and the Bogeyman. Sort of. Demons are like those little dust particles floating around. And as soon as they see an opening, aka your wound, they attack. They feast on bad emotions and they act fast. One or two more days and you’d be gone. They completely take over your soul.”

“But I love- loved- Josh. Sure, we fought sometimes, but I wasn’t angry at him.”

Tony shrugs, “Maybe at work? Any insecurities? Any fears?”

Mary thinks, staying silent for some moments. Her life was normal. She went on one tour for two years in Afghanistan, treating the wounded. She wasn’t totally comfortable with the idea of war, but she couldn’t pay for college and the army paid for her degree. Fortunately for her, she hadn’t seen anything too bad, especially compared to others. She saw what PTSD could do to honest people. But now she had a normal life. Work, a boyfriend, friends… Everything was okay. But now, her world was upside down.

“No, nothing. Now I’m afraid.”

“No jealousy? Envy? Any of the other mortal sins?” He puts his hands up, “Not judging, by the way.”

“No,” Mary looks at him, eyes filled with desperation, “What’s going to happen to me?”

Tony chooses his words carefully, maybe for the first time of his life. He wasn’t really the best at this. Antonio was much more composed; he was better at the slaying. At least he was better than Holden.

“Well, we need to get that demon out. That’s why I need this,” He points around the room and at the stuff on top of the table, “Don’t worry I’ve been in this business for twenty years. Jesus, that’s awful.”

The words alarm her, “What? Am I okay?”

“I was just thinking I was getting old,” Tony was really getting old. He’s almost fifty. He could keep doing this- one day he wouldn’t be able to swing his sword. What if his hair turned all white like Gibbs? And suddenly, he was having a middle life crisis, with a very scared woman (obviously. She has just been told demons exist and that she has one of them inside her. If it were me, I’d be in a ball, crying in a corner- I’m very soft).

“What do we do now?”

That made him snap out of his tiny crisis. He read Antonio’s instructions. He trusted him. Tony just didn’t trust himself. He was getting old, after all. If he messed up somehow and the demon came after him, he couldn’t just shoot it. He had to slash it- and that was another problem altogether. He was a bit rusty.

“Now I’ll exorcise it. The demon will die, but you will still be charged with double homicide.”

Reality dawns on Mary. Supernatural creatures aren’t a get-out-of-jail card. She was responsible for killing two people. That hadn’t settled in yet. She killed her boyfriend. And she killed a kind woman. She was going to jail for the rest of her life. For something she didn’t do. It wasn’t her.

“There was a man who was acquitted for sexual assault in England because he was sleepwalking. You can claim you were sleepwalking too. You’ll still go to jail,” Tony looks down. A doctor was going to jail- for life- because an asshole decided he needed food. At least she did eat anyone. Maybe that was the painless way out. A clean-cut that detached her head from her shoulders. Instead of living in a 6 by 8 until she dies. He takes a deep breath, “Let’s deal with this first.”

He takes a zipper from his pocket. It’s silver, very expensive, with a viper design on the front. He lights a stick of incense. Smoke fills the room, spreading the smell of wood and pepper. Using the onusa, the real name of the duster, to purify the air. The smoke envelops Mary, who’s eyes get glassy and distant. Behind her, Tony watches her get more and more sleepy. Her head gets heavy and her heart beats slowly. He raises his hand on top of her head.

And then she falls forward. Hits the table face first. Tony grabs his katana, slowly revealing it. He holds in his breath. Nothing happens. Mary continues laying down, unmoving. And then there’s the sound of scratching. Deep gashes mark the metal table. Mary lifts her head, shaking, and opens her eyes.

It’s a bright green, like a cat. She’s finally comfortable in her own skin. No more worries, no more problems. No more dealing with nosy bitches like that fucking Annie. And that stupid Joshua. What kind of fucking name was that? She smiles and a long tongue slides from her mouth to lick her lips. Freedom, finally.

Mary- or a version of her- stares at Tony. Her eyes are glossy, lifeless. He raises the katana. Neither moves. Silence. One second. Two seconds. It charges at him, aiming at his head. Its long tongue slips out in excitement. It tries to scratch him twice, but Tony keeps dodging.

This is way more fun than he remembered. The creature tries to punch him one more time and fails. He raises his sword and runs. His heart pumps faster. Adrenaline rushes in his veins. He had spent too much time sitting around. He aims the blade at its heart with a smile. He was young again!

The demon wrapped its slimy tongue around his wrist. It was bumpy, like an octopus, with saliva dripping to the ground. Oh crap. And then Tony’s skin starts burning. He hisses in pain. It feels like someone dropped sulfuric acid on his skin. Pain shoots up his arm. He closes his eyes, trying to ignore it, but his hand starts shaking and he ends up dropping his katana.

This was the not so fun part. This was the part he didn’t think of fondly. But there was no way he was going to lose. Tony pushes his arm back and the demon gets dragged along. And now starts the videogame combo: he headbutts it so hard he could feel his brain shaking. It lets his wrist go. Tony punches its stomach. The creature bends forward in pain. He grabs its head and crushes it against his knee.

But, in that moment, it grabs his leg with its tongue. Not again. Tony is lifted up with superhuman strength. He tries to forget the Armani suit that’s being ruined by a tentacle tongue. Then he spots it- his katana. Poor little guy, on the floor all alone when there’s a monster to kill. He stretches like a cat, only a few inches away. His fingers brush the handle. He’s so close.

“No, slayer,” It slithers, “I’m not that stupid.”

And with that, Tony gets flung across the room like a ragdoll. He flies for a few seconds, frowning, before hitting the wall with a loud thud. He gasps as he falls to the floor. This is why he was on a break. Because he was almost fifty. How could Gibbs do it? How could Gibbs drop kick a guy like it was nothing? Because Gibbs was awesome.

But he wasn’t. Neither were his ribs, who felt only bruised. Tony looks at the ceiling, thanking a God he doesn’t really believe in. Even so, breathing was Hell on Earth- demon included. Tony starts breathing with his stomach, theater-style.

“I’m too old for this shit,” He quotes as he sits up, grimacing.

But again, he is caught by that fucking tongue again. He rolls his eyes. His reflexes weren’t the best. Maybe he should join an Aikido class or something. Maybe he should ask Gibbs for help- no, that would just end up in sex.

As he was lifted up in the air again, he thinks, ‘Let’s just get this over with.’ So, he grabs his katana and slices its tongue. He falls on his butt, next to the cut tongue, which is now flapping like a fish out of water.

Instead of a pained shriek, the demon laughs, “Do you think that stops me, Slayer?”

And like that, the tongue grows back to its pointy shape. It shoots towards Tony, who dodges it skillfully. Somethings, even with forty-seven years under his belt, are never forgotten.

Tony lunges at full speed, katana in hand, pointed at its heart. With one swift move, this would be all over. He raises his arms, ready to strike… And then he drops the sword. The demon widens its eyes and watches the sword hit the floor.

He smiles. Old tricks always work. Tony grapples its shoulders, puts a foot on its thigh and throws himself back into the floor. The creature is sent flying, hitting the ground on its back with a loud thud.

Tony stands up, panting. He puts his hand over his ribs and winces. He grabs the katana and walks to the demon.

He raises the sword over his head, “You’ve got to ask yourself one question. Do I feel lucky? Well, do ya, punk?” In desperation, it darts its tongue and lashes it onto Tony’s wounded wrist. He flinches in pain, groaning. Tony brings his arms down, full force, and digs the katana into its heart.

And, just like that, the monstrosity turns into a shivering young woman. Tony smiles. Job well done. He looks at the burned, eaten flesh of his wrist and feels his right side burning every time he breathes.

Job sort of well done.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) I based this chapter on a fictional town with a real name. I just want to say that everything is made up by yours truly, so if there’s any resemblance with real life, it’s a coincidence  
2) Because of a comment that I got about the first chapter, I’ve decided to show you pics of the ships and characters, so that everyone can have a sense of what they’re reading. They’re gifs from tumblr, but I'm not sure if they work on mobile (sorry)
> 
> Hank Voight and Antonio Dawson: 
> 
> Bill Tench and Holden Ford: 
> 
> Jethro Gibbs and Tony DiNozzo 
> 
> 3) There might be some violent descriptions, but it’s nothing too graphic (I think) so if it made you uncomfortable, please tell me in the comments and I’ll up the rating and put a violence tag.
> 
> 4) Thanks for putting up with me, have fun!

**Sedalia, Missouri**

In a cheap motel, in a room with twin beds, two men sleep in one. Federal agent Bill Tench and federal newbie Holden Ford. Well, maybe sleeping isn’t the best verb. One is sleeping. The anxious, blue-eyed praying mantis that is Holden sleeps soundly in his corner of the bed while Bill, a golfing manic smokes his second cigarette of the morning.

He exhales the smoke, watching it float about. The room they’re in is just another generic, crappy motel. The stupid mattress was killing his back. He had no idea how Holden slept. Maybe it was because they had sex until two. Bill takes a drag out of his cigarette with a proud smile. He was good.

From Holden’s ugly briefcase, something rings. It’s not long. It’s just a few quiet, computerized notes and it’s gone. Bill ignores it, choosing to smoke like so many times, but Holden- Holden jumps from his sleep like nothing happens, scaring the shit out of him.

“What the fuck, Holden? I thought you were asleep.”

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you,” He means it. He rummages through papers, psychological evaluations, case photos, paperwork, reports with a nervous speed. All under Bill’s watchful eyes. Then he finds it. An outdated phone like the burners Antonio used. It has one unread text, from an unknown number:

One dead. Maryland. Agent in hospital. Be careful. Delete this immediately.

He deletes it, but not before reading it twice. He had no idea who was in Maryland. It was probably Tony unless Antonio had moved from Chicago. Who knew? They hadn’t kept in touch.

Bill puts out his cigarette, “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. Junk mail.”

Holden goes back to bed and covers himself with the thin, see-through sheets. Bill stares at him. He stares back. Bill looks away. It’s awful to keep a secret, an such a big one as that one, but he had no choice. He didn’t feel guilty. It’s necessary. He closes his eyes, conscience scot-free.

Bill watches Holden. He sucks at lying. God, he’s awful at it. But it’s too early in the morning for him to try and decipher whatever was going on with Holden at the moment. And it took too much energy. He grabs his carton of smokes. Holden turns to him.

“You’re not going to smoke again, are you?”

Bill stares at him, cigarette hanging between his lips. Holden stares back. Even after getting divorced, he still had a wife. One with hair like a Mormon. With big, blue eyes. Which were staring at him in disbelief, with the usual air of superiority.

“You’ll die from lung cancer.”

He puts the smoke back in its carton, under protest. But just seeing Holden’s eyes light up made it a little better. He was a pain in the ass, but he was cute. Still, he frowns. Bill had a reputation to keep.

Holden looks at him with his angelic eyes, “Is it just me-“

“It probably is.”

“-Or every time we have road school, there’s a grisly murder that needs our help? California, Pennsylvania and now Missouri.”

“There’s always going to be murders.”

Holden gets propped on his elbows, ready to dispense some knowledge, “Jean Piaget and Lawrence Kolhberg believe that criminals failed to grow a moral compass when they are children.”

There was someone who spoke like that. An aspiring sociologist. An ex-girlfriend. Jealousy pangs in Bill’s chest.

“Have you been talking to Debbie?” He tries to sound relaxed, cool, but his voice betrays him. Fortunately, Holden is too dense to realize it. Or maybe he just doesn’t care. Yeah, that’s it.

“Yeah, we ran into each other the other day.”

The question leaves him before he thinks, “When?”

“I told you- the other day. I think it was Wednesday.”

“How’s she doing?”

“Busy with college.”

They weren’t a couple. They were partners and something more occasionally. They had sex. Bill had no right to ask questions and he knew it. But he couldn’t stop the questions. Debbie was the one to pop his cherry, even if Holden bragged there were tons of girls.

Holden gets up, only wearing pristine, white, underwear. Bill watches him walk to his suitcase, “We should get going. Agent Takahashi is waiting for us.”

“Sure.”

**

The Sedalia police station was like many others they visited: beige walls with a corkboard; outdated computers, real cinderblocks; even the uniforms seemed to come out of an 80s cop shows. Holden and Bill were sitting side by side, watching a thirty-something woman talk about the freak case that haunted yet another small town. Unfortunately, this was routine.

“The Armstrong’s. Family of three moved in about five months ago. The mother was a teacher at the local elementary school. Father was unemployed. They had a little girl, Sarah. She was five when some monster did this.”

She points at the pictures hanging on the board. The little girl, Sarah, was laying down in her pink bed, in her pink bedroom, grasping her turtle toy. Her face was frozen in terror. Her chest had deep gashes as if a bear had attacked her. The murderer had ripped her legs and arms away, never to be found. Blood dripped from the ceiling. Her once pink sheets were now soaked in red. It was an awful Tarantinesque scene.

The parents weren’t any better. They died hugging each other in their bed. They had the same large tears. Their faces were painted with their own blood. Mr. Armstrong was the one who had the worst fate- his back was so wounded, it was practically shredded; he had no missing limbs, but there were parts of his meat missing. Mrs. Armstrong, shielded by her husband, was more attacked in her legs. No right foot and her left leg was practically torn off.

It was sloppy, messy. It was animalistic.

“Who could do this?” Agent Takahashi’s dark eyes tear up. She removes her metal glasses to wipe them away, embarrassed.

Bill studies the photos, “Someone strong. I mean, Jesus fucking Christ, he ripped the little girl apart.”

“How? This had to be someone especially strong,” Holden joins him. He knew this pattern. In his soul, with all his being, he knows what did this. Not who, what. Yet, he pushes those feelings down. The Maryland attack was a once in a million, it wasn’t going to happen in Missouri.

“How many P.E teachers are there?”

“Two: Mr. Benedict and Mrs. Stinson.”

Holden sits back in his chair. Lust was one of the seven deadly sins. But it didn’t fit his… profile. Demons are erratic, they just want to eat. That’s all they think about. A demon doesn’t hold grudges. Maybe he was wrong. Maybe this was a murder driven by jealousy, by a needing to possess.

“Is Mr. Benedict married?”

“Yes, with another teacher at the school. They have three kids.”

Bill turns to him, “An affair gone wrong?”

“Or a stalker. That’s why he went for the husband.”

Takahashi’s voice is quiet against their speculations, “There was another one.”

“Another murder?” Bill’s interested is piqued. He leans forward, blue eyes focused on the young agent. It’s a good look on him, Holden concludes.

“Around two months ago. Local kids,” Agent Takahashi searches through a manila folder, “They went missing. Vanished from thin air,” she takes out some school photos. Young boys, around ten, all look at the camera, making silly faces. Typical.

Then she gives them crime scene photos. Bill looks away. Four boys, dead and mangled, just like the Armstrong’s. And if that wasn’t horrible enough, due to the time, the bodies were liquified- no hair, no teeth, almost no skin.

Takahashi bows her head, “A jogger found them in the park. They were… taken apart as well. We- I – made sure to look into every single person that lives here and every single person that passed by. I found nothing. Chief figured they had been attacked by a dog.”

Bill crosses his arms, “You don’t believe him.”

“Nope. I had a gut feeling something was wrong,” She pauses, “So when last night happened, I just knew.”

“That rules out passionate murder.”

Holden looks at the photo of the smiling boys, “There are five children here. Have you talked to the other boy?”

“Lucas Dalton. We haven’t found his body yet.”

“Jesus,” Bill stands up and rubs his forehead. He grabs his cigarettes, “I need a smoke.”

He leaves, making sure to slam the door. Holden looks down, feeling his heart tighten. Bill and kids was like Antonio. They both have strong paternal instincts. Every child is to be protected. But there’s always going to be murders and there’s always going to be pedophiles.

Agent Takahashi, who’s slumped over a chair, head in her hands, livens up to the sound of Holden’s voice, “Was there any sign of sexual assault? The boys and the Armstrong girl?”

“No, not according to the coroner.”

“Any semen?”

“What’s your theory?”

“Maybe a pedophile? But it doesn’t make sense,” Holden shakes his head.

There was only one thing that makes sense. He didn’t want to believe it. But it was the only answer.

It was time to hunt a demon.

**Washington D.C, Maryland**

In Washington D.C, at the beginning of the day, an ex-marine is called to the local hospital. Apparently, Leroy Jethro Gibbs was the emergency contact for one Anthony DiNozzo Jr. That wasn’t strange, as they’d known each other for ten years and had dated for three, but what was strange was why the hell Tony was in the hospital.

Coffee in hand, Gibbs storms in the emergency room. He barks at the poor receptionist, who tries to keep him there, and glares at anyone else who attempts to stop him. He was going to check on Tony, one way or another.

Gibbs slams the door to room 249. Tony lays in its bed, IV drips going up to his vein. His right wrist was bandaged and so were his ribs. For context, the kind doctors gave him some painkillers. What they didn’t know- or what Tony wasn’t able to tell them – is that painkillers are to Tony what weed is to art students. His mind gets foggy and his thoughts slow down. Basically, he gets higher than the Empire State.

So, when Gibbs opens the door, he sits up and shows him the sweetest smile, “Jethro!”

“What the hell happened, DiNozzo?!” Gibbs’ voice is loud, is angry.

Tony looks away, putting on his best pout: lower lip forward, big, green eyes wide and sparkling and eyebrows raised. He looks at his boyfriend, knowing exactly what he was doing. He was always good at acting- it was what made him a top undercover agent. And that was how he won all their fights. Well, most. Gibbs’ eyes, usually icy blue, soften as he walks to his bed. He sits down in the creaky mattress. Tony keeps his pout, but curls up next to him, sighing happily. Despite his reputation as a bastard, he was soft. Softer than a marshmallow peep if Tony played his cards right. And at that time, he had the best one: the sympathy card.

“What happened?”

And to Tony’s foggy mind that was an invitation to start rambling about everything and nothing. About how he got hurt and then passed out on the couch, and then when he got up, he remembered to go to the hospital. He was going to call Gibbs, but his phone was dead, and it took to long to charge, so he had to drive all the way to the ER. And didn’t crash.

Gibbs sighs, “Tony, what did I ask you?” He gets a shrug and a smile in response, “How did you get hurt?”

“Bleach.”

“Bleach?”

Tony’s foggy mind somehow manages to come up with a lie, “I was doing laundry.”

A very bad lie, “You send your suits to the dry cleaners.”

“I do?”

“DiNozzo,” Gibbs glares at him, marshmallow peep-ness gone. And Tony didn’t have any more cards to play.

Tony tells him how he can’t tell him, not now, not for a long time. And he pulls out the biggest weapon he has against Leroy Jethro Gibbs: Leroy Jethro Gibbs. So, being an ex-marine, he has a very structured life- wakes up early, gets dressed, has his coffee, wakes Tony up… - and a part of that were his Guidelines for a Harmonious Workplace (only Tony calls it that), aka Gibbs’ rules. They were about sixty-nine (nice), with numbers overlapping sometimes. Even after working ten years In the Major Case Response Team, he didn’t know all of them, since they weren’t written down anywhere, but he had some burned into his mind.

“Rule número cuatro.”

Best way to keep a secret. Keep it to yourself. Second-best, tell one other person—if you must. There is no third best. A rule Gibbs also knew well, since secrets and he go hand in hand. A big problem in the early stages of their relationship.

“You can’t tell me?”

Tony shakes his head. He really couldn’t. No matter how cool of a fighter Gibbs was, even in his sixties, a rogue petty officer isn’t comparable to a flesh-hungry, 7” tall, superhuman demon. If a possessed person- not a demon- had gotten him in the hospital, what could it do to a fragile human? And Tony was trained. And by training, he meant Antonio and him beating each other with sticks while an old guy watching them. Before Holden joined them- then it was them both against Holden.

“Fine, Tony, I trust you,” Gibbs really did.

It wasn’t easy for him; his exes could prove it. But Tony was his Senior Field Agent, his de facto second in command. He was the one who had his back, who saved him from numerous dangers. Not to mention Tony was his boyfriend of three years. No one, except for Shannon, had lasted that long. And, while he was sure he was going to spend his life with her and Kelly, but life had other plans. There was a moment he thought that was the end of it- he was going to die alone. His failed marriages could confirm it. He had lost his chance. But life played another trick- Very Special Agent Anthony DiNozzo, the one who had tackled him in Baltimore and who he slowly fell in love with. And if he didn’t trust him, then who would he trust?

“Ducky wants to check you out.”

Tony sits up, almost ripping the IV from his arm, and gasps, “No! C’mon, Jeth…”

“That’s what you get for not calling me.”

“No…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one with a mother, a fight, a theory and a strange Man.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys I just want to thank everyone that took the time to read, comment and put kudos (I don't know the verb, sorry) and I've tried to up the quality of the text. Also, this chapter a little French- translations in the end notes.  
Have fun!

**Sedalia, Missouri**

After their talk with Agent Takahashi and a weird testosterone-filled meet and greet with Chief Bennett about the city’s low crime rate, Holden and Bill decide to visit the parents of the murdered boys. They were all every standard, in similar two-stories houses with manicured yards, with the mothers naturally emotional, telling them their sons were normal kids with good grades and good behavior and the father by their sides, comforting them. In short, they came up empty. No mentions of strange men or strange behavior. Just one interview left.

Bill turns to one of Sedalia’s trailer parks- Sunny Side Trailer Park. But there was nothing sunny about the park. Old, rusty, RVs settled in yellowed, dried up grass. Between them, are lines of naked trees. Holden spots a mailbox with the number 112 on it.

“This is it.”

The inside of the trailer is the mirror of the outside. Awful, badly aged, flowery wallpaper covers the walls as purple carpet covers the floor. Miss Dalton, mother of Lucas Dalton, didn’t even bother to change from her ten dollar pajamas. Why would she? They were just cops. She’s had more cops in her home than politicians in whorehouses. Holden sits awkwardly next to Bill in a green couch. On the coffee table, are two off-brand, Mountain Frost sodas and stale cookies is a plastic plate.

Bill notices the pale line in her wrinkled finger, “Divorced?”

“Why are you here?”

Holden is whiplashed by her tone, “Do you know what happened to the Armstrong’s?”

“Why?” Behind the woman’s messy hair, he notices a framed picture of Lucas, maybe seven, sitting on a log, behind a campfire, with stars as the background. He smiles, missing a few teeth. it was a truly happy picture.

Bill takes the lead, anger bubbling to the surface. Still, he maintains a professional smile with a slightly strained voice, “We believe the Armstrong’s and your son were killed by the same person.”

Miss Dalton rolls her dark-circled eyes, “Duh. This is a small town, not many psychos around here,” Then she raises her eyebrows, “Except for housewives. Those bitches will kill you if their little angels don’t get into the football team.”

“You don’t get along with the other mothers?” Holden asks.

“Nope, and still don’t. After the boys were found, they all started saying,” She makes a superior face, puckering her lips and looking up while putting her hands together, “’ Our boys are playing together in Heaven’” She scoffs, “Yeah right.”

Holden leans in, “What do you mean?”

“Those boys were the devil. Harvey Spencer, Danny Wilkes, Steve Ali and Carl Fiorello,” She curls her fist, “They used my boy as their personal punching bag.”

“Lucas told you this?” Bill asks.

“He didn’t need to. I’m not blind. At first, I thought,” She shrugs, “Boys will be boys. They were roughhousing and things got out of hand. Then he shows up with black eyes, split lips and bruised arms. That’s not playing, that’s bullying.”

There it was- wrath. The reason why no one found Lucas’ body. He was the one who killed the other boys and the Armstrong family. Probably he was getting beaten and lost control. And then he got hungry, unlike Antonio, and found the Armstrong residence. What he had to do next was find him. Holden had about ten hours to find out where he could be hiding, or there would be another case like the Armstrong’s. And if that happened, there would be so many more problems. He just had to conduct a parallel investigation without ticking Bill off. And he didn’t have his materials. That would be the toughest.

“Did you tell the other mothers?”

Miss Dalton looks at him with annoyance, “Weren’t you listening? I talked to them once and they thought I was fishing for money.”

Bill notices how interested Holden was. This was new information. And it changed their view on the victims, but it didn’t add anything to their search. What was up with Holden lately? He was acting weirder than he already was.

So, he gets back on track, “Mrs. Dalton, did Lucas mention anything about someone strange?”

“No, Lucas didn’t like talking to people. His only friends were those fucking assholes. I hope they rot in Hell.”

**Chicago, Illinois**

The Intelligence Unit’s home is in a locked gate on top of the 21st precinct. And there was always ruckus, be it Ruzek and Atwater making ridiculous bets; Halstead and Lindsay flirting, thinking they were subtle, or even Antonio and Hank talking in his office. But now, every desk was empty, except for one. Antonio’s.

Antonio couldn’t eat. While the others happily chatted away about the meatball sub in some restaurant, he sat in his desk, drowning in worry. Earlier that day he had gotten the same short, cryptic message he was sure Holden got too. Agent in the hospital. Which meant Tony was in the hospital. Even when they were teenagers, he was the one who got beaten up the most. Maybe because he was the most reckless and childish. Taunting a superhuman creature isn’t the best.

Their friendship was a funny thing. They were ten hours away, Antonio in Chicago and Tony in Maryland. But despite the miles between them, they had a strong bond. He wanted to get away from the Hell hole that was Chicago and Tony wanted to get away from his scheming father and the parade of stepmothers. So, each with their pager so they could talk in private, they would set up a meeting. Before sneaking under the moon, Antonio would bribe his baby sister so she wouldn’t snitch, he’d put a couple of pillows in his bed with his shape and flee out the apartment. His mother would be too busy with work, Gabby wouldn’t snitch, and his dad was about two thousand miles away. Their days at Sugarloaf were the best. They hiked, practiced and slept under the stars with only a pillow and two blankets because tents and sleeping bags were too expensive. They even got some work done.

And now Tony was in a hospital somewhere. Antonio doubted he was alone; he probably dated every single girl and guy in Maryland and the surrounding states. And dating was going far. Once, when they were in St. Louis, he had flirted with the motel’s receptionist. But in his defense, he had gotten the rooms at half price.

“Hey.”

“What’s up? You seem stressed out.”

“Do you need to talk about it?”

That amount of care softened Antonio.

“Not right now. Thanks.”

“Is your head in the game?”

That has Antonio on his feet really fucking fast. Softness gone.

“Are you doubting me?”

“You should take a day off.”

Antonio’s voice is full of irony, “I should, or do you want me to?”

“See, this what I’m talking about,” Hank points at him, eyebrows furrowed in anger “You’re pissed off.”

“If I’m angry, I’m screwing up, but if you’re angry, you’re doing your job.”

“Don’t throw this at me.”

“You started it!”

Anger light his stare and his voice was so loud even the K-9 downstairs whined, “I’m worried about you!”

Antonio scoffs, mocking smile on his lips, “About me or about the case?”

“I asked you want was going on and you said nothing!”

“Because I’m not ready to talk about it. Because it’s a personal matter,” Tears betray Antonio’s eyes, pooling at the corners, from the sheer frustration of being alone in a war, while the world turns against him.

“Is this about that call?”

“Oh, for God’s sake,” Antonio rolls his eyes and wipes away his tears, “You know what? I’m taking that personal,” He grabs the leather jacket from his chair, takes his badge off and slams it in the table, “And I’m sleeping at my place tonight.”

With that, he storms pass Hank, heads down the stairs and disappears. Hank stays in place, frowning, anger long gone from his blood. He sits down in Antonio’s desk. The badge shines in the sunlight, mocking him. He didn’t know what happened. One second he was genuinely worried and the other he was angry. Angry that Antonio didn’t trust him, that he couldn’t lean on him and tell him what bothered him. He saw the tears in his eyes. He made Antonio cry. He had never seen him cry. He was such a fucking idiot.

**Sedalia, Missouri**

Their rented, old and way too expensive for what they got- an ’87 Jeep Grand Wagoneer- was falling apart bit by bit. But it still worked, and they were on the road, heading to their newest generic motel. Maybe they are all generic because they paid fifty dollars a night, even with the new funding they got, and Bill’s past protests about adjacent rooms. Now, with their… arrangement (aka _in situ_ booty calls), he doesn’t seem to complain anymore. And he was always adamant about Holden showering first, while he read the newspaper or read the house listings. Like they say- He hated to see Holden go but he loved watching him walk away.

Even with that image in his head, frowns as he smokes one more cigarette, hands gripping the wheel.

“What the fuck was that?”

Holden stares at him, clueless.

“Those questions.”

“I wanted to know.”

“How is that relevant to the case?” Bill looks away from the road to give Holden a passive-aggressive glare.

He sits up in the dusty seat, eyes shining, had explained that he had been thinking- which prompts a snort on Bill’s part and a raised eyebrow on Holden’s- that the boys sneaked out one night like kids do, meet in the park and dragged Lucas with them. Then, they started beating the poor boy and that’s what drew the killer’s attention. Of course, in Holden’s point of view, that last statement was complete horse crap, because he knew what happened and who the killer was. But Bill didn’t have to know. He could investigate this on his own.

Bill asks him if he thinks he’s protecting the kids and Holden tells him that maybe he has a sort of moral compass (unlike Holden himself, Bill thinks) that makes him see himself as a vigilante. Like comic book heroes in his world, protecting the weak from the strong. Not that Holden knew much about comic books. He tried reading one, once, in a lazy Saturday afternoon in the public library, passing time until his mother left for Church. He didn’t like it. Too colorful.

“Then would he kill the Armstrong’s?” It made no sense. The Armstrong girl was left with no limbs. It was insane. It wasn’t a Superman, it was a fucking psychopath.

“Maybe Mrs. Armstrong mistreated one of her students.”

“Why would he protect them?”

“Probably because he was abused as a child.”

Bill turns a corner, making sure to look. He didn’t want to get T-boned again. Besides the humiliation he got, even if Holden was the one who took the blame, he was so scared. Holden scared the shit out of him. He thought he had killed him. And when Holden finally assured him, he was fine, Bill saw the car hitting his side of the car, the glass shattering and flying as they spun around the road, and he wasn’t scared. His eyes were fixated on Holden, seeing him tumble around, praying that he didn’t get hurt. And as soon as he told him he was fine, he buried those feelings deep down.

They keep their back and forward, Bill asking questions and Holden answering with theories and what-ifs. It’s a well-oiled machine from months of practice.

Bill frowns, shaking his head, “I don’t know… That’s a lot of maybes.”

Holden looks at him, blue eyes pleading. Those goddamn eyes could make an Empire fall, similar to Cleopatra’s nose, “Let me look into this. We’re looking after a male, very strong, mid to late twenties and goes to the gym or has one at home. Probably works in a field where he uses that strength. Let me add a troubled past. That should narrow our list down.”

Seeing him so excited, so morbidly excited like he cared more about the glory of catching the killer and not avenging the dead, Bill takes his side, putting on his best ‘I don’t get paid enough for this shit’ face.

“Fine, Holden. But I’m going golfing.”

“Have fun. When you come back, I’ll have our guy,” Holden smiles a shit-eating grin. It wasn’t another maybe. It was a certainty. He was the best of the best and he was going to prove it. Not to others, because others would maybe pat him on the back with a ‘good job’ and leave him alone again, but to himself.

“Sure, Sherlock.”

“Are you still upset about that?”

Bill parks the car in another generic car park and takes a drag out of his cigarette “Nope.”

He totally was.

**Dresden, Missouri**

About ten minutes from Sedalia is another very small community, named after the capital of the German state of Saxony. In a cozy corner of Dresden, between miles and miles of fresh, lively grass, stand blocks of warehouses for multiple purposes: some for farming, some for furniture building, some for storing imported goods… In short, very busy areas always buzzing with life, be it operational managers or machine workers. A few, however, were abandoned for years with time’s scars marked deeply on their walls: graffiti tags, broken windows, wood planks replacing doors and so many other things we’d be here day and night listing them all.

A tall man walks along with them, whistling an old sailor tune from the ages were wars were considered heinous and unusual. On top of a receding hairline, he had a hat, like the ones from mob movies. Some hair fell to his oily forehead despite the tremendous amount of gel that was forcing them together. With his curved nose, the man breathes in the space around him in a grandiose movement. He mostly just inhales dirt, gasses and some grass particles He exudes a natural charm for the ones not faint of heart and a certain quality that makes normal humans want to punch him in his big nose.

_We'll drop him down to the depths of the sea_

_We'll drop him down to the bottom of the sea_

Besides the stupid hat, the expensive that didn’t see the light of day often and his dress shoes that clearly weren’t made to walk dirt paths between abandoned warehouses, he had a bowtie. Not a shiny one with headache-inducing patterns like today’s “youth”. Just a simple one, which clashed with the whole fifties New York criminal outfit and made him look like an outdated Bill Nye.

_We'll sing him down with a long, long roll_

_Where the sharks'll have his body_

_and the devil’ll have his soul_

He steps in one of the old warehouses- an old plane part’s factory. It was spacious, enough to build three apartments. But now it’s home to the homeless and criminals. Used to, at least. No wonder Sedalia’s crime rate is so low if the criminals are all dead.

“Lucas?” The man calls, a slight accent in his tongue.

Between rusted machinery, a large lump was sitting down, wrapped in a blanket painted with duckies: Lucas Dalton, previously ten years of age, now immortal. Two long horns grow between his sandy blond and bloody hair, framing two smaller ones in the far corners of his forehead. Small, bright, lizard eyes watch, unblinking, free from the burden of eyelashes. His fangs are the color of tainted marble. He stands at seven feet, with the body of a professional bodybuilder- raging veins in a body built to withstand anything Humanity could bring.

He smiles and runs to hug the man, with a child’s glee, “Daddy, you’re back!”

“Mon fils, what have you done?”

“Nothing.”

The man smiles, wrinkles accenting his cheeks, and pats his blank covered head, “There’s no need to lie, I’m not upset.”

“I-I was so hungry,” Lucas whispers, eyes dropped to his colorful watch, “and-and I didn’t want to hurt more bunnies.”

“It’s my fault, son, I’ve been absent for far too long. Did you have fun?”

Lucas shrugs, huge mouth turned upside down in a mixture of sadness and boredom.

“Did something happen? Were you injured?”

“No, daddy, I’m just bored.”

“Of course. Being trapped inside all day must be torture. Children need to pay. But don’t worry, as soon as the night rises, we’ll keep traveling. Are you excited to meet your brother?”

He sits down next to a very excited Lucas, who cradles a new, blood-soaked koala plushie.

“Do you think he’ll want to play with me?”

“I’m sure you’ll have a grand time together. Now,” The man points to a lonely mattress in the corner of the room, that has even more blankets, with even more animals, “off to bed. You can’t be tired when you meet your brother.”

Lucas gets up, barefoot, and asks in a small voice, “Will you tell me a story?”

“Always, mon amour.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mon fils - My son  
Mon amour - My love
> 
> Thanks for reading. Leave a comment with your opinion!


	4. Chapter 4

**Washington, D.C, Maryland**

Tony and Gibbs were late. Not by much- ten minutes. And by now, bets started to fly. Ziva, a curly-haired Israeli badass beauty with slight anger issues, bets Gibbs was late because Tony wouldn’t wake up. Agreed by all. Tony was one heavy sleeper. Tim, an ‘I want to believe’ nerdy cherub, bets, blushing, that they’re late because they were getting… frisky. That was taken well, especially by Abby, the most adorable and sweet goth in the USA with the brain of a genius. She takes it very well. Her sort off dad was getting some. She was going to make the same bet, actually. So, it was two to one, with ten bucks in the pot.

And then the elevator dings. Tony’s long body is draped over Gibbs stiff one. Their pose was nothing short of Michelangelo’s Pietà. Gibbs has the job to keep them both up, with an Italian giraffe clinging to him for dear life. Luckily, it wasn’t the first time. Every time Tony got drunk, he’d get clingy, repeatedly professing his love for him. It was sweet. At first. But after a while, with the routine memorized, it was annoying.

They leave the elevator and enter the bullpen, under the expectant eyes of the team. And then they noticed it: the bandage on his wrist, his hurtful breathing and the way he was smiling and dragging his words. And the juggling needed to manhandle Tony, his coffee and his id badge.

Gibbs puts Tony on his swirly chair, ignoring his requests for kisses. He had already told him three times that they were at work, they had to be professional. But high as a kite Tony didn’t care. He just wanted some sugar.

Ziva stares at them in disbelief.

“Tony, what happened to you?”

Tony raises his finger, stupid smile on his lips, “Fight club rule number one: You do not talk about the Fight Club.”

“You didn’t get into a fight.”

“Yes, I did.”

“No, he didn’t,” Gibbs interrupts, smirking.

Tony whines in his chair, pouting, dragging the word boss to infinity with a high pitched voice, spreading smiles around the room, except for Gibbs, who just glares at him. Which does not stop him. He would whine to get his way and the day he found his abilities was a miracle. It was a Wednesday before they were dating, but not far from it. They were spending a late night at MCRT. Now, Gibbs wanted to go home and work on his boat. Now Tony wanted to have a movie night. Just the two of them. It might have been related to his crush on him. Usually he wouldn’t give in to whining. But you see, Gibbs also had a tiny, tiny crush on Tony, and despite trying everything to get away from him, a voice inside him told him to do the movie night. How know what might happen? It made him feel awful. But after Tony begged and begged, the voice won.

Abby looks between them.

“It’s so weird you call him Boss. Do you get off on that?”

Gibbs sends her his best death glare, “The case, Abbs.”

“You didn’t deny it.”

Tim’s mind focuses on the big, unanswered question, “Then what happened?”

“We’re focusing on the case now, Elf Lord. Pay attention,” Then he turns to Abby with the most mischievous smile the world has ever seen and whispers loudly enough that the agents on the floor above them can hear him, “Yes, he does.”

Gibbs slaps the back of his head, but with a smile matching his.

**King Peak, California - 2000**

“Is it weird we’re hanging out with a teenager?”

The sun beats against their skin, creating large drops of sweat. The numerous tree shades weren’t doing any good to save them. Tony pants as he hikes alongside Antonio, who is fresh as a daisy, both carrying pack backs heavy as rocks, filled to the brim like they’re boy scouts.

Time hadn’t caught up to them. Still hadn’t according to Tony, but he was still in denial. Antonio’s cheeks were at his chubbiest, with big eyes and a happy smile. He had never been happier. He had an awesome wife and they had the cutest little girl. He was a patrolman with his eyes on the price: the detective test. His life was amazing, and nothing could go wrong. Tony was happy too. He had dated a couple of nice gals and now he had Wendy. He couldn’t wait to pop the question. And he got good money from working in Peoria. He and Antonio got together sometimes, and now they had Holden, their kind of adopted kid.

“Besides the fact we’re thirty? No…”

“I’m twenty-five,” Tony scoffs, the weight of denial like a feather on an elephant’s back.

“You’re two years older than me. I’m twenty-seven.”

“Your mental age is what counts.”

“Then you’re eight.”

Tony gasps dramatically, hand rising to his chest as if it had been shot through and through. Holden drags his feet behind them. He absently listens to their conversation, like he’s too superior to pay attention to their childish bickering. But this was better than staying at home, listening to his mother’s delusional religious rants.

He hated this ‘training’. His leg hurt. He was sweating like a pig. He hated hiking. But he hated being jumped more. And this was helping, so he puts up with it. Tony spouts a speech about youth and death fast approaching while Antonio just rolls his eyes. Holden rolls his eyes too.

But he smiles, anyway. This was happiness. This was having friends meant. The long nights discussing movies and boxing champions, eating pasta with canned tuna or pasta with sausages, sleeping in cheap tents under the stars, learning how to fight… Even if friends meant two grown men who liked teasing each other like little kids.

**Sedalia, Missouri**

Holden envied Bill. He was in a golf course somewhere, hitting pars, birdies, bougies and all other strange goal names, while he was here, stuck in a dead-end. He had searched the city, looking like a tourist with a map in his hand searching for murderous children with a hunger for human flesh and a kill streak of seven.

Yet, even using his finest skills, he had gotten nowhere. Lucas Dalton was nowhere to be found. He visited every tunnel, park, cave and abandoned buildings he found. Holden even trespassed private propriety tying to see if he had hidden in an unused house, but nope.

So, he decided to do what he hated, talking to normal folk. See, Holden likes to talk with the deranged, the deviants, because it’s like he’s unwrapping a gift bit by bit: first the bow, then the wrapping paper, then opening the box and then discovering the hundred and one things inside. But with regular people, he always managed to find a way to screw things up. Because either he’s going to say the wrong thing or he’s going to be anxious, which leads into the first option and it’s a loop he can’t get out of, unless when Bill tell him to shut the fuck up.

He goes to restaurants, flashes his ID and asks people if they’ve seen someone strange. A tall, strong man. Blond, like the photo. They all say no. It was a quiet town, until the murders. Holden stands there nodding along while they go on and on about how the victims were such good people, hoping they would just get it done so he could waste his time somewhere else. Is it insensitive? Yes. Is it wrong? Perhaps. Is he right? Yeah.

Just because he kept running in circles it didn’t mean he was going to stop. He had to hit his head on walls over and over again to learn. That’s what Bill had said when they were flying back to Quantico after another interview. He didn’t agree.

As he leaves another brightly colored, fifties themed Mom and Pop diner, wondering where he could go next, a waitress stops him. She runs after him to the parking lot, tight outfit matching the misogyny of their restaurant’s time, calling out his name. Her auburn hair was once in a bun, but after countless hours of taking orders and dad jokes, along with some handsy costumers, it flew everywhere, including her face. She pants, despite having only ran twenty steps and tries to catch her breath between every word.

“Sorry,” She wipes her forehead, “You said something about a blond dude, right?”

Holden watches her sad display of unfitness as if he’s Adonis. He nods, replaying the description burned in his tongue.

“I saw a blond man, tall too, but he was skinny. I remember him because, boy, he was a pain in my ass the whole time. I had tables waiting and he kept ranting about Les fleurs du mal or something. At first, I thought he was talking about the panties thing.”

He rolls his eyes and begs someone to shut her up. If he had Bill with him, he’d know how to do it in a tactful way. Unlike Holden, who just interrupted her asking if he was a local.

“Oh, no, he was French.”

French? he asks. Yeah, I know, the girl answers. She doesn’t look older than twenty.

“I thought that was strange,” She continues, “’ Cause there are prettier places.”

He asks her to describe him. The Man had a suit with a bowtie, like Michael B Jordan in the Oscars, but without so much sex appeal. Holden didn’t know who that was, so he just agreed awkwardly. The waitress goes into more detail, saying he had a big nose, and he was always whistling the same song, which almost made her throat punch him. Besides the whole anti-bourgeoisie talk, ignoring all the fancy stuff he was wearing.

“Did you get his name?”

“No, sorry. He just ate and left. Paid with money. Left a big tip,” She smiles. She could make rent this month. Holden, much less gloomy now, repeats the information in his head. How could the man have anything to do with it? He was so sure Lucas was the one, but maybe he was wrong. That left a sour aftertaste in his mouth, “I remember him saying something about visiting his son around here.”

Holden asks where around here meant, but only gets a shrug and a sorry. She offers him one of the free maps they have in the restaurant, but he turns it down. He already had one.

Visiting his son. A Frenchman. Around here. That was strange. What did the man have to do with it? Did he have anything to do with it? Sure, it was strange to have tourists in the town. There was nothing remarkable about it. Especially with Chicago so close by. Maybe that was the around here. That still didn’t solve anything. So, he asks about the son.

“He hadn’t seen him for a while,” A pause, “Do you think he’s the one that killed the Armstrongs?”

The question he was used to getting and was used to dodging. He does, thanks her and says that if she remembers something else, to call him, and gives her his number. He walks away, confused and sort of drifting through the town, wondering how the man was connected to the case, if he was at all. His gut tells him yes, his mind tells him it makes no sense, that he’s just an outside character in an already complicated play. He didn’t know what to trust. Right now, he wasn’t sure if he knew anything.

The only certain thing is that he had to do this alone. And he was going to solve it. No matter what. No matter how far it took him. He was going to solve this by himself.

**Chicago, Illinois**

Working without Antonio was weird. Felt like there was something missing. There was no one to bounce ideas off of, no one to write impeccably on the board, no one to tell him no when things got out of hand and no one to back him up when needed. Hank didn’t have his partner. The one who put him in jail and the one who slept next to him every night.

It didn’t help that everyone kept asking questions. First Halstead, then Erin, Atwater and when it was Ruzek’s turn, he just snapped. He screamed at the top of his lungs that they should stop asking him questions and get to work. Of course, even in Voight’s standards, that was off the charts, and he got a concerned pat on the back and an ‘if you need to talk, I’m here’ from Alvin. Because Alvin wasn’t blind and he noticed the lingering touches, the looks and the hidden smiles. And on top of that, Alvin Olinski, with his moustache-and-soul-patch combo, was an expert on failed marriages. His ‘apartment’ on his ex-wife’s could prove it.

Hank was worried. He was worried where Antonio could be, if he was still angry… He regretted ever opining his mouth. Antonio was going through a rough patch and he only made it worse. He wondered if he was home, doing what he hated the most: staring at the ceiling. Maybe he had gone to the gym and was punching some poor boxing bag to its death.

Maybe that was why his calls were going to voicemails. Even the one he was making now, the hundredth of the day. The computer voice tells him to wait to the beep to leave a message. He does, but after so many left messages, he feels like he’s just repeating himself.

“Hey, umm…” Not the best start, “I just wanted to- I don’t know... I’m sorry I yelled at you. You have your own things going on and I…” His voice fades. _I made you cry. _The words leave a sour aftertaste in his mouth. He clears his throat, image of tears running down Antonio’s face still fresh in his mind. It was all he could see, “Call me. Please.”

He hangs up. And stops pacing in circles. Like feelings, apologies aren’t his thing. He knew he was wrong, no doubt about it, but it was like it was impossible for him to say them. Hank Voight’s trademark apologies were a six pack and a Blackhawk’s game. The problem was that he wasn’t so sure that beer would solve things. And if that was the case, he didn’t know what would fix it. Still, he was going to go to his apartment, with his best apology, and try to make amends.

Hopefully, Antonio would be a much better person than him and would forgive him.


	5. Chapter 5

**Sedalia, Missouri**

The city’s golf course is impressing. The grass expands into the horizon, with various shades of green, surrounded by cork oaks and pines. It’s well maintained by the workers, most being high schoolers trying to make some extra money, with careful attention to every detail, from the height of the grass to the cleaning of the pond.

Bill loves golf. It’s his getaway from reality. When Nancy would question him relentlessly about insignificant things or would boss him around, he would run to the nearest course. It was where he could clear his head and have some time for himself.

Maybe that’ what ended his marriage. He always felt like he didn’t have time for himself. Between road school, Brian and Nancy, it was all too overwhelming. It was exhausting coming home from a long day and listen to a thirty-minute rant about how he was always absent. He knew Nancy was right, she also had a lot on her hands, and she mostly did it alone. They were always busy with their things, be it the BSU or Brian’s therapy. That’s what killed the flame.

Bill swings the club and hits the small ball. It flies in a curve and lands near a sandbank. He walks with his golf bag behind him under the hot sun. The sky was clear, which made it an even hotter day as there was no break from the rays.

Golf was a pause from Holden too. Chasing him around and stopping him from doing stupid things got tiring fast. The kid had no tact whatsoever and he didn’t realize when too much was too much. It’s like he has no brakes. Even in interviews, instead of testing the waters before swimming, he just cannonballs and hopes for the best.

And that wasn’t his worse quality. He could stand his serial killer facts and his recklessness, but his fucking superiority complex. He couldn’t just do one thing right and end things there, no. He had to gloat how good he was. And that was what got them into deep shit most times.

But his holier than thou attitude came in handy when used properly. When interviewing Eleonor Nelson, a known sociopath, Bill’s tough guy questioning didn’t work. They needed something more subtle, more intelligent. So, Holden took the lead, with Bill constantly watching him. Holden sat leisurely if somewhat forced, with a twisted smile on his lips. It was like looking in a mirror. It took a while, but after making some comparisons to one of his criminal crushes and feeding into her ego, the woman unraveled before them, retelling every detail with a screwed sense of pride.

But Holden wasn’t a sociopath. Sure, sometimes it felt like the guy had no heart, but he was so fragile. It was like the smallest gust of an emotional wind could take him down. He empathized with everything but had difficulty expressing his own feelings. He overthinks about the most unnecessary things; from the way he ties his shoes to the materials in cigarettes.

Once, after being told off by Bill himself, he had found Holden curled up in a ball in his bed, rocking back and forward, bawling into his pillow as sweat stains his shirt. All because he was scared he had disappointed Bill. After convincing to get him to breathe, he just spilled everything that was going on in his mind. And it was terrifying. The thinks he thought about, the things he felt. That was the first time they shared a bed. And they just slept, Holden’s head resting on his chest with Bill’s hand on his back.

And he could feel an attack coming. Holden would run into a wall in the case, he’d doubt himself, he’d start overthinking and it was downhill from there. He didn’t mean that weren’t going to find the killer, but Holden wouldn’t be able to do it on his own. And failure was his biggest trigger, besides awkward conversations and imagined disgusted looks. He was so fragile. And he had to deal with it.

Lately, Holden was acting strange. Stranger. He was keeping secrets, investigating on his own… It wasn’t any of his business, but if Bill had to babysit him, he should return the favor by telling him the truth. They were partners… they were something else. They were fuck buddies, mostly. They were a mess. Because of Bill. He was the one who made the first move.

One night, after Nancy left with Brian, he had a couple of whiskeys at a random bar with Holden, who was enjoying bragging like usual. He didn’t want to go home alone again. He didn’t wasn’t to sleep in an empty bed in an empty house filled with memories. He needed someone. Even if he wasn’t a social butterfly, he needed company. Just the first person he saw. And there he was. Holden. Tipsy from two glasses, running his mouth. He was always talking. He wouldn’t shut up. Bill wondered if he was loud in bed. If he would scream Bill’s name over and over again for the whole world to hear. If he would desperately run his nails on his back, begging for more. He stared at Holden, who had shut up under his gaze, staring back with his big eyes. Bill lets go of his drink and leans in. Holden closes his eyes. That kiss was what started it all.

He puts his club in the bag, along with the other sleek ones. He grabs his smokes. He needed to go back to Holden, ask him how the investigation is going.

**Washington D.C, Maryland**

The bullpen is the awful orange that spreads to all the walls in the building. On the far side of the wall, surrounded by mug shots of dangerous man is written ‘N.C.I.S Most Wanted’. Four standard desks are facing each other, one for each agent of the MCRT. Tony sits in his, reading a case.

Tony was hard working in spite of the outer image he likes to portray. He liked working. He liked opening a new case, finding a small detail that changed the whole picture and chase down the criminal, like he chased Gibbs. That was a fun one. Especially tackling him. It was the start of a cute ass romance. Work was like playing Clue every day. With the adding of being able to tease McGeek. And the rare chance of office sex.

Ziva sits in her desk, typing away. Tony and she are alone. Tim was in the basement with Abby, solving some IT stuff Tony didn’t understand and Gibbs was on his third coffee run of the day. It was the perfect time. Ever since Gibbs and DiNozzo arrived, she couldn’t keep her mind off one question: What happened to Tony. She tried to question him when he was under the influence, but he always managed to change the subject with movie references and childish jokes. She needed to know. And she was going to know.

“Interesting case.”

Tony looks up from the file, “Looks like it,” He says, with a voice that translates to mild uninterest.

Tony goes back to the case.

Ziva, with sparkling eyes of a predator hunting prey, stands up and walks in his direction.

“A lieutenant with a secret.”

“Give the guy a break. Everyone has secrets,” He shrugs, and then widens his eyes, ready to talk about yet another movie, “Like the Armitage family. But- you know- without the racism and body switching.”

Ziva sits on his desk, ignoring his answer. She had an agenda and she was going to fulfil it.

“Gibbs has a lot of secrets.”

Tony agrees, shaking his head.

“It’s amazing that you can sleep in the same bed knowing that.”

“We do more that sleep,” He says with an amused voice and winks before turning serious for once in his life, “I also know that he’ll never do anything to hurt me.”

“So, you trust him?”

“Don’t you?”

Ziva shrugs.

“Of course, he’s my superior.”

“I’m your superior too,” Tony says, first hint of coldness in his cheery tone.

“Well…”

His voice turns bleak, “When Gibbs is away.”

“When Gibbs is away,” She nods. Tony was no Gibbs. They weren’t made of the same fibre. Gibbs was a natural leader while Tony was just a used knock off.

“If you can trust him, despite his secrets, because he’s your superior, then you can trust me.”

**Sedalia, Missouri**

A man, French, blond, tall, wearing a suit and a hat, with a son around the city. Besides the possibility of him being a weird tourist, Holden could’ve stumbled into the Lost Treasure of Flor de la Mar of this century. Oh, he hoped it was that. He could have just found one of the most powerful people no one has ever heard off. One of three to be exact- people who have lived on Earth for centuries. Oh, he hoped it was that. He would give everything to kill one of them.

Thanks to Agent Takahashi and a promise of a date after they caught the killer, as a celebration, he got CCTV. Holden really wasn’t used to people flirting with him or even asking him on a date. Debbie and he would just go out to dinner and pick a place on the spot and Bill would just look at him or ask him: ‘Let’s do it?’. They never actually went on a date. Probably they shouldn’t have started… doing it. Bill had just gotten divorced, he was vulnerable. Holden should’ve never kissed back, but he couldn’t stop himself. He couldn’t believe what was happening, but he was so happy. Bill saw him, finally. But after the deed was done, and when Bill slept next to him, it felt empty. Artificial. Like it wasn’t real.

Maybe a date wouldn’t hurt him. Sure, he had no interest in Agent Takahashi. She was pretty in regular standards. Holden wasn’t blind. But he was taken. Sort off. It was complicated. His heart said Bill, his mind said Nope. And he doesn’t care about you, he’ll never love you, no one will never love you… All pleasant things. At least he would get a good meal out of it, instead of junk food.

The street images weren’t so great. Really not worth a date. They were grainy and looked a decade old, but combined with pictures from the restaurant, he got a good look at the man. Well, not a good look, because the cameras never showed his face. Even in the diner, without his hat, the man managed to hide his face.

It had ticked him off at first. He kept reviewing the images, trying to spot just an inch of anything, an eye, a birth mark, a tattoo, anything that he could identify, but there was nothing. Then man didn’t have a car, he traveled on foot and avoided the main streets, which had no cameras.

Of course, the man had to hide his face. He couldn’t risk getting caught. And there’s the big chance that he was connected to Lucas Dalton’s disappearance. He probably watched him from afar, for a long time. He watched as the boys bullied him, as he got more and more depressed. But depression wasn’t good enough. Those feelings had to be turned into a weapon. So, the man probably talked to him at some point. But how would a grown man talk to a child without it being strange? He was seen as a tourist. Maybe he asked for directions. That meant he had to question more people about the man.

This was big. This was huge. Adrenaline pumps in his veins. Holden smiles.

“How’s it going?”

Bill creeps up on him and makes his smile disappear. He had to get his act together. He tells him, with a sad face but a sparkle in his eyes, that he has no new leads.

“Then why the smile, Norman Bates?”

Holden denies it. Bill shakes his head, unconvinced. He sits next to him, in front of a paused recording of a street camera.

“So, nothing?”

“No… I’ve tried everything. I even talked to locals, but they don’t know anything.”

Bill smiles, “Wow, you talked to other people.”

Holden ignores him, frowning.

“I checked the CCTVs, but there was nothing,” He sighs, using all of his dramatic expertise, “Because of that I have a date with Agent Takahashi.”

“A date?” Bill’s voice is cold, but he doesn’t notice it.

“Yes.”

Bill’s face is still, frozen in a scowl.

“With Takahashi.”

“As a celebration.”

Bill exhales a breath he didn’t know was holding and runs his hand over his face. He nods, biting his lip.

“Okay,” He pauses, “So, you hit a wall. And no fit yet. Amazing.”

Holden stares at him. His eyes are widened in surprise and filled with hurt. He can’t believe what he just said. He looks down, feeling stupid. The panic attacks weren’t on purpose. He didn’t want to have them. It was Hell.

“Do you not want me not to go?” Holden’s voice is flat and quiet.

“Where?”

“To the dinner.”

“Your date with Takahashi? Knock yourself out. We need to actually close the case first, and since you don’t have jack shit, I’m here to help.”

Bill’s voice is anger disguised as peace. He pretends he doesn’t see the way Holden flinches from him. He pretends he doesn’t feel his heart break a little.

**Chicago, Illinois**

Antonio’s gone. Hank stands in an empty apartment, pointing his trembling gun at nothing. Sweat drips from his chin to the ground. Antonio’s gone. Only then, it dawns on him. And he almost laughs. After six decades on Earth, he should really get used to it. Everyone leaves. Everyone gets hurt. His heart was poisoned and every person he ever loved was infected. First it was Camille and cancer, now it’s Antonio.

He had searched every corner of Chicago for him. From the precinct, to the gym, to Molly’s, to the firehouse. He had even searched his own house, hoping that maybe Antonio had gone there to talk. He had called at least a dozen times, all to voicemail. He had texted, asking where he was and explaining how worried he was and how he just wanted to apologize. He had begged for a proof of life, even if Antonio was still upset.

But Antonio was nowhere to be found and his phone mockingly stared at Hank and his dozen unanswered calls. Next to his wallet and car keys. Antonio was taken. Someone kidnapped Antonio. Someone was hurting Antonio.

Hank wondered if his last words to Antonio were jealousy-filled words. He wondered if the last time he saw Antonio was him rushing to get away from him. He wondered what if he had to learn how to sleep in an empty bed again.

He remembered being dragged into a Vice’s car on handcuffs and the satisfied look on Antonio’s face as he read him his rights. He slept on a six by eight cell every night, seeing the moon and stars in squares. He remembered the panicked look on Gabriela Dawson’s face as she asked him for help catching the gangbanger that tried to off her older brother. It had made him so happy- it was much deserved payback- but he was glad to help (a favor is a favor). He remembered seeing Antonio laid on the snow, pale as a sheet, slowly bleeding. He couldn’t think of losing him, not when there were so many things left unsaid.

Back then, when Antonio was fighting for his life in a hospital bed, Hank had cement blocks chained to that Columbian motherfucker’s neck, ready to take a dive. To this day, Pulpo’s screams still rang in his ears. And if Jay hadn’t stopped him, telling him that Antonio wouldn’t be able to shoulder the guilt, he would’ve done it. And he would’ve slept soundly. But sending him to Stateville with a price on his head is practically the same thing. He just didn’t get to witness it.

Hank put the gun back in its holster. His hands didn’t shake anymore. He wondered what he’d do to the guy once he caught him. Maybe he’d actually go through with Finding Nemo.


	6. Chapter 6

**Sedalia, Missouri**

Holden had to go for a walk. His heart hurt, so he decided to clear his head. He was upset with Bill. He stayed back, working, while he played golf. He couldn’t understand why Bill was so mean. He was working, following a lead, and he had the audacity to criticise him?

The moon greeted him like so many sleepless nights, following him with each step towards the motel. The wind rushed him along, giving him goose bumps. He had left his jacket in the room, but Bill was there, and he really wasn’t in the mood to put up with his grumpiness. He runs his hands over his arms, trying to shield himself from the cold.

They weren’t a couple. They weren’t exclusive. They just had sex. Bill kept saying it, so why was he so surprised when Takahashi asked him out? It was a two way street. And if Takahashi had asked Bill out instead, he wouldn’t be upset. Because, in Bill’s words, “sex doesn’t make us a couple.”

Of course, it would hurt a bit. Just like it hurt to watch ladies flirt with Bill, but he was a grown man. An adult, who made his own choices. He would deal with it. Maybe it would sting Bill like his words stung Holden.

Holden stops and lifts his head, a small ‘ah’ in his lips. He was upset that Takahashi invited him out. However, that meant admitting he had feelings other than annoyance, anger and frustration. And, instead of acting like an adult, he acted like a cornered animal.

It wasn’t an excuse to say the things he said, but it put things in perspective. Holden smiles. It meant that maybe Bill actually felt something for him. Maybe. If he wasn’t dreaming too much. With a renewed soul, he walks up the stairs in direction to their room.

Bill was inside, on his sixth smoke. The tv was muted, letting him think. Holden was pissed at him, rightfully so. He had fucked up big time. He never meant to say those things, to say Holden hadn’t done anything while he golfed. But knowing Holden had a date with Takahashi made him flip his shit. He felt nauseated, and the more he thought about what would happen on the date, the sicker he felt.

He knew it was childish- he behaved like a little kid who put down a toy and couldn’t play with it anymore. And he had no idea why it hurt so much. Sure, he knew the reason, he just didn’t know why. They weren’t a couple. They couldn’t be a couple. He had just gotten divorced and Holden was an emotional mess, with all his panic attacks… It would never work. On top of that, Holden was a grown ass man with Mormon hair and weirdly pressed suits. He could go out with anyone he wanted.

He flips through the channels on the broken remote, stopping at a Manson documentary. He didn’t feel this shit with Nancy, not even when they were dating. Proof that he was a shitty husband, but also proof he couldn’t stop thinking about Holden. And didn’t want to stop.

He groans, sinking his head in his wrinkled pillow in despair. And in that moment Holden walks in. He shivers, his whole body shaking, as he runs to get into his pajamas. Not knowing what to do, Bill watches him.

“Hey, there’s a doc on one of your crushes on Tv. Wanna watch it?” He cringes, rolling his eyes. It was a shitty attempt to offer an olive branch. Holden doesn’t notice it.

“Who?”

“Manson.”

Holden gets into his sweatpants, “It’s probably just sensationalism.”

Bill scooches to make space for him in the single bed, ignoring the unused one next to it. It was a tight fit, “You’ll never know,” Holden lays down next to him, resting his head on Bill’s chest. He blushes, feeling how loving it feels, “How was the walk?”

“I think Lucas did it.”

“The Dalton boy?”

Holden nods. It made sense- and it had happened before. Mary Bell, Peter Baratt, James Bradley… Not counting all the school shooters. A child was capable of anything, if they were desperate. It’s easier to take down an adult than most expect. A bluet to the head, a swing to the kneecaps or a stab in the eyes is all it takes.

“He killed four kids his age plus two adults and a little girl?”

“I don’t think the two cases are related,” They were, but Holden couldn’t give him a natural reason why just yet.

“It’s the same MO. It’s the same rage. A kid could never do that.”

“His mom hated the suburban families. We know hate is taught.”

Bill looks down at him, “That still doesn’t explain the ripped limbs. On both cases.”

“I don’t know… It’s...”

“An instinct,” Bill finishes the sentence. Holden nods, “Your gut is feeling a lot lately.”

“I know I’m right.”

Bill chuckles, driving Holden’s head up and down, “You always think you’re right. We need to find him first. If he’s dead, he’s dead. If he’s not, we’ll question him. But I doubt he’s still alive.”

Holden looks up to him, with those big, blue eyes of his, and smiles. Actually smiles. It makes Bill’s old heart warm in ways he didn’t want to notice. He unmutes the Tv, trying to ignore the heat emanating from his chest, “Now let’s watch this sensationalist crap.”

**Chicago, Illinois - 1986**

The Dawson family house wasn’t quite a house. It was more of a shoebox out of many shoeboxes in the outskirt of windy Chicago. Their house was more like a long hallway with rooms smaller than holding cells, clearly skipping some construction security rules. It’s messy, with cheap crayons laying around and unwashed dishes in the sink and an absurd amount of frozen nuggets and Eggo packages in the garbage. It’s every kid’s dream- an unsupervised home.

Antonio rests in his unmade bed, eyes closed, young face twisted into a frown. One of his eyes is swollen shut. It’s the only visible wound out of at least a dozen, because drug dealers are as careful beating twelve year old as they are with dope. Turns out Hakeem is extra careful with it. So extra he would beat him up for a missing dime bag.

He had just lost the bag. It was an accident, but Hakeem was always trigger happy. He was sure something was broken, but he couldn’t go to the hospital. No one could know he was slapped around. He was no little bitch.

One day, Antonio kept thinking, one day he was going to put a slug right between his eyes. He would make him beg. Beg for forgiveness. And he would laugh. He would laugh so hard he would cry. And then he’d get Hakeem on his knees and shut him like a sick dog. It was what he thought before going to sleep and what he thought when he woke up.

Gabriella, the last addition to the family, stutters in. She’s just shy of seven, dressed head to toe in orange, because every girl in her class wears pink and she’s strongly against it. Pink was a little girls color and she was no little girl- Antonio would even let her cook pop tarts on her own. She climbs up her big brother’s bed and sits down next to him.

Antonio doesn’t move, eyes shut, ignoring her. He wasn’t in the mood for little girls. He wasn’t in the mood for Gabby. Ever. He keeps breathing slowly, trying to minimize the pain and somehow keep living. Maybe later he would raid the medicine cabinet and get some of papi’s pain killers. He was too stupid to notice.

Gabby stares at him, getting more upset second by second at the lack of spotlight on her.

“What’s that?”

Antonio doesn’t open his eyes, “What?”

Gabriella lifts her small hand to his face, but before she could reach his hurt eye, Antonio grabs her hand a little too hard. She ouches quietly, cowering before her brother’s mad face.

“Makeup,” He hisses, letting her go, before leaving the bed. He grabs a jacket and his beaten up sneakers. Gabriella follows his every move with a confused face. Mami used makeup on date night. But why would Antonio use it? It was a school day.

“Why?”

Antonio takes a deep breath as he grinds his teeth, “Why what?” He mumbles, frown deepened.

Mrs. Dawson, newly arrived, dressed in a cleaning uniform, enters the room. She starts mumbling something in Spanish about messes but stops in her tracks. Her eyes land on Antonio. Surprise reigns in her tired face, but quickly turns into anger.

“Antonio! ¿Dónde estabas?” (_Where were you_?)

Antonio keeps his head down and laces his sneakers. His answer is short and nothing but sweet, “School.”

Mrs. Dawson scoffs, walking up to him. The principal had called. He’d been skipping school for a month. Coming to one class and then leaving for the next. She was sure it was just a phase. She had told Ramón so, when he was insistent that a beating would set him straight. Her Antonio Rafael was such a sweet boy when he was small, it was just the hormones jumping around. But now, she was starting to come to terms with a more physical punishment.

Antonio zips on his jacket and lifts the hoodie, not wanting his mami to see. She’d just ask question and he really wasn’t in the mood for humans. But it’s too late. His mother puts her hand on his chin to stop the squirming and takes a look at his wound. It had a sickly dark color and it looked painful.

Antonio slaps her hand away and tries to walk away, but Mrs. Dawson is used to his teen angst. She grabs his wrist and pulls back the jacket sleeve, revealing a series of finger-shaped bruises. Mrs. Dawson stares at the arm, mouth open as to speak, but no sound comes out. What has been going on with her boy? Then guilt strikes her. She had been so focused on working that she didn’t even notice.

And just like that, her tone softens, “¿Qué pasó, cariño?” (_What happened, honey_?)

She had a feeling she knew who it was. That boy Dylan who kept calling them spics and greasers. She would have a talk with that principal who was so worried about Antonio skipping but didn’t do anything to protect her son.

Antonio doesn’t answer her. Instead, he gets away from her hold and puts his hoodie back on. He leaves the room and a shocked mother behind, crossing the short hallway. He slams the door shut on his way out.

**Chicago, Illinois - 2019**

Javier Castro screams. Aa nobody, six months out of Statesville after ten years. There’s a muffled thump, followed by another scream. Jay, an ex-military, puppy-dog detective cringes on himself, back turned from the door. He closes his eyes, as if it would make him deaf. Another scream.

He can never understand how Voight manages to do this. And it’s not a one time thing- they had a list of about twenty people, people Antonio had arrested and were now free, and most names have been “interrogated” in the same way.

Voight doesn’t let anyone in, just Al. They stay there for about five minutes. And they use Voight’s hunting knife, chains around their fists or pipes. Apparently. Another scream, but not from Castro.

He leans against the wall, humming a made up lullaby. There’s silence for a while. Then the door slams open, hitting the wall and almost Jay. Hank Voight leaves, licking his lower lip before biting the inside of his cheek. A nervous habit. He cleans his hands on a napkin, turning red with each swipe.

“It’s not him,” It’s the only thing that Hank says.

Jay looks at his feet and gulps. There’s a faint groan coming from the other room. He cringes once again. Al pats him in the arm, with a tight smile and a dripping pipe against his shoulder. Jay watches the blood pool on the floor, shining in the light. He takes a deep breath and doesn’t dare to peak into the cage. Even if he does, Jay’s sure Javier Castro is an inch away from being a pulp, if he wasn’t already. He follows a step behind them, shaking his head.

Al leaves to dispose of the third pipe of the week, while the two meet Erin at the top. Blond, green eyed, awful temperament. It takes one second for her to understand it’s not time for questions.

Hank passes by her without so much as a word before firing instructions, “There were no signs of forced entry, so it was someone he knew. Who else had access? You two, make a list of people who knew Antonio and held a grudge. Anything.”

He leaves the precinct, leaving Erin and Jay behind. They walk slowly, not really talking. Antonio knew was a professional boxer, he was more than able to defend himself. Not to mention he had his service weapon. Who had the key to his place, plus the skills to either disarm or fight him without messing everything.

Jay looks at her. He knows he shouldn’t bring it up and it’s just going to cause a whole lot of trouble between them, but he couldn’t talk to anyone else. He trusted Erin- she was his girlfriend- and he was sure the others could be intimidated by Voight into snitching.

“Are we ever going to talk about what Voight’s doing?”

“He’s questioning suspects.”

Jay raises his eyebrows, “He’s beating up innocents.”

“He’s doing what he can.”

“What he can- Do you know what he could do? Stop breaking the law.”

Erin narrows her eyes, “I’m sure whoever took Antonio is as concerned about not breaking the law as you.”

“I don’t want him hurt, much less…” His voice grows quiet. They both know what he means, they both wish it wasn’t a very real possibility, “But this is the wrong way to do it. You know it.”

“It might be, but it’s the best to get him back.”

Clearly unable to read the room, Adam Ruzek in all his patchy-beard, plaid-jacket glory, walks up to them carefully, like he’s holding a bomb. Not like, he really was, but not the boom goes the dynamite type. They turn to him, somehow making Ruzek more scared. He doesn’t speak, overwhelmed. Jay and Erin raise their eyebrows, impatient.

“So…” He clears his throat, looking down on his papers, then gesturing vaguely.

Erin rolls her eyes and sighs, “Ruzek, I don’t have time. Speak or leave.”

“I got Antonio’s phone records and texts…” He drifts away. Erin looks like she’s going to kill him right there, “Sarge and Antonio are…”

“Together, yes. And?”

The question makes Adam trip on himself even more, throwing him into a loop of “Ah…” and “I-I-I”. Jay watches them quietly, not moving, not breathing, and overall afraid of making any sudden moves. He squints and is certain he sees a little bit of Voight in her words.

“You live in the 21st century, so I’m sure you can grasp the concept of a homosexual relationship. Is it going to affect your work? Because, if it is, quit now.”

“No.”

“Good. Now go search for anything suspicious,” She waves her hand in a ‘go away’ movement, stepping aside to make room. Ruzek was about to head for the stairs when Erin grasps his arm pulls him close to her and whispers in a cold voice, “If you ever mention this, I’ll make sure you’re delivered to your ex-fiancés bit by bit.”

She smiles, waiting for an answer. Ruzek nods frantically, eyes widened. He climbs the stairs, looking over his shoulder every now and again, just to check if he had no gun pointed at him. Jay rolls his eyes at the dramatics. He thinks back to the countless “accidents” suspects had endured since Antonio had gone missing. It made sense. But it didn’t make it better.

Still, he’s surprised. He didn’t mind it, of course, but he thought both were straight. And even if they weren’t, it was pretty strange combination. They were always at each other’s throats, Antonio because Hank was bordering on serial killer territory and Voight because Antonio didn’t let him break the law. And it was in those moments that Jay missed him.

“You found out?” He asks. He doubted Voight would ever tell any of them he was a human being capable of loving.

“You didn’t? They’re not good at keeping it a secret,” All the times Erin had caught them making what can only be described as googly eyes at each other were too many. Not to mention the time she caught Voight groping Antonio in his office. She feels puke rising to her throat. Thank God they didn’t notice her, or it would’ve been a million times worse

“I can’t believe Voight busted my balls for dating you while he was busting Antonio’s.”

“I think it’s the other way around.”

They both shudder at the thought.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Leave a comment about what you liked and what could change.


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